From:    J
Sent:    19 November 2002 10:44PM
To:      S
Subject: Starting to feel the poison of remorse in my heart.

Hey Sis — got the Spy Ear thingy this morning and can’t stop rubbing my thighs together with GLEE! (It makes a sound at a frequency that only other homos can hear — is the Sissy Song of Joy.) Now I have to wait until lunchtime to go get some batteries for it, waiting is TORTURE! On a weakly related topic (torture and its imminent conclusion), I booted out The Turkey yesterday morning. That’s right, Ian the Goblin has been given his slithering orders from Woodlawn Street. I just couldn’t take it anymore, it was driving me to despair.

[SETTING THE SCENE] I spent all Sunday re-arranging my bedroom into a bizarre layout that, according to the abiding principles of Feng Shui, will prevent me from making-the-love for an aeon and a half. (You need to see it to believe it — I’ve RAISED my bed 80cm off the floor so I can fit my desk which is on castors under it, along with my air-con and a bunch of other stuff.) So, Sunday night I was exhausted, hot, and could not sleep. I had spent the weekend alone with The Turkey cos Jade had gone to Shepparton to see her parents and recover from her near-death gastro experience of last week (“Stronger than all the rest/this sickly housemate might soon be at rest/Oh villains fear her, so we cheer her/The amazing GastroGirl!” —   sung to the theme song of AstroBoy, obviously.)

[ELICITING READER SYMPATHY] So Monday night, I was still sore from moving furniture, hot, grumpy, sleep-deprived and there was The Turkey, just bringin’ me down even further. I regarded him slyly from my sleepy eye as I lay on the couch and plotted… Then Tuesday morning I got up, had slept well and was in a good mood (I’m one of those ghastly “morning people”). I bounced out of my room, cheery as a cereal advertisement. Then I see the evidence of The Turkey everywhere. The ironing board he never puts away. The empty bottles beside the bin that he NEVER puts in recycling. And then the little rotter appears himself, pale as one of them nasty yellow Mexican Walking Fish, and about as talkative.

[SUSPENSE] Grrrrrr. Tension…building… Good mood…evaporating. I went back in my room and got dressed. Came out and Jade was in the shower, and he was… watching morning television. (Who watches morning telly? I mean c’mon!) I sat down on the couch opposite and reached deep inside myself for – “my most understanding Oprah voice.

[CLIMAX] “Geez, this is really hard Ian, but Jade and I… we don’t think it’s working out.” He slapped his thigh and looked annoyed. “You’re a nice guy, but we’re looking for someone more… communal.” I knit my eyebrows with anguish and concern. “I mean, we never eat together, and we just don’t… communicate, really.”

[CONSEQUENCES] He looked down and to the side and said “Well, I’m shocked. How long have I got?” He was a bit narky. “A month!” I blurted, starting to feel the poison of remorse in my heart – adding, as I was, another chapter to the sorry tale of his life (he got stepped on and squished at a concert on Monday night – he’s so liii-ittle). Then he peeked at me out of his squinty eye (he has a facial tick that makes him wink at you all the time) and said, “So I can stay until I find another place?” and I gushed “Sure sure!” and immediately regretted it. “I s’pose we can talk about it tonight,” he said, sucking it in and looking at the ceiling.

[UNSATISFYING CONCLUSION] I scurried out the door and immediately felt better, treacherously, horribly fabulously better! Jade was still in the shower while all this going on, but I figured he’d have left for work before she got out. Wrong.

As she came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, the horrid little ginger goblin poked his head out of his serial killer bedroom (I must have told you about his bedroom, ja?) and said, “J’s already told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That you want me to leave.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Jade winced sympathetically with a shrug thrown in for good measure.

“So, I can stay until I find somewhere else to live?”

“Sure, sure!”

I tell ya Sis, I have this nasty feeling that he’s gonna take 3 months to find another pair of idiots on the same scale as me ‘n Jade who’ll take him in. Won’t that be lovely? Not uncomfortable at ALL! Not that it hasn’t been uncomfortable anyway.

Actually, it was VERY uncomfortable last night, when we were meant to have our “talk”. Jade had a doctor’s appointment and wouldn’t be home until 6.45, so I stayed back at work cos I just couldn’t face being in the house alone with him. I eventually bumped into Jade on Swan Street — she’d been home and he wasn’t even there. He eventually made it home around 7.30, but we didn’t “have a talk”. He just stayed in his room (as ALWAYS) and then came out to tell us he was off for the evening and we reiterated that he can stay til he finds somewhere else (groan!).

He’s pretty shitty about it, but it’s hard to take his anger seriously when he’s so little and ginger and ugly. (I know that’s horribly patronising, but it’s TRUE, god dammit.) Ian’s so skinny AND short AND ginger, AND with a frail build, you know? And he’s got that short legs/long torso proportions, with Coke-bottle shoulders and a long skinny neck thrown in for good measure -­ his Adam’s apple sticks out further than his chin. I wish I had a photo of him to show you.

Speaking of endings, how come you’re resigning? And what’s this about second hand book sales? Are you selling your own books or other people’s? Have you set up a porno bookshop in the garage at home?

And that IS funny about Lilith– that is SO Dick, pushin’ her round the bloody outback in a wheelchair. He probably thinks he’s being a top bloke. As for telling him about my whoopsie-ness, I’m not so sure. I’m always in two minds. Half the time I think “YEAH! Tell him, ha-ha-haaaarr!” and the other half of the time I’m thinking “Aw hell, keep him at arm’s length.”  If he started asking me about my “boyfriends” I think I’d fucking DIE! At least with things the way they are, we never talk about my private life AT ALL. In fact, whenever I meet him for one of those INTERMINABLE lunches, I always look up the Age and CNN websites beforehand so I’ve got something to talk about. Anyway, I might never have to speak to him again if things keep going as they are – I haven’t spoken to him for at least six weeks. He called and left a message that he was back in town “only for a few days” but I never returned the call. He hasn’t called since, not that I miss those bloody morose messages he always leaves on the machine. Do you suppose he’s waiting to see when I’ll call? You’d think he would have LEARNED by now, wouldn’t you?  Ho ho!

Tell you what, I’m dead jealous of your Tenerife holiday — I’m too dang poor to go anywhere. All the extra money I’m earning here gets spent on my bloody teeth. Maybe next year I’ll save up and go to the Seychelles. The only reason I really wanna go there is so I can say and since all my cash goes in my gob, I certainly won’t be adopting no Third World rugrats. I quiver at the idea of a PET, let alone a freakin’ child. Maybe if a pair of desperate lesbians ask me for a “donation” I could do that, as long as I “–“didn’t have to hang around, pay maintenance and take the damn thing to the footy.

Well, better get to work, I’m taking Monday and Tuesday off next week to beach myself by the seaside and think about my 30 long years. Better get some work done. I’ll send you some Darryl Lea liquorice and BBQ Shapes and Twisties on Monday — have to get into the city for the liquorice.

J

 

From:    S
Sent:    20 November 2002 9:57 AM
To:      J
Subject: Re: Starting to feel the poison of remorse in my heart.

I go around charity shops buying up particular books and then flog them on Amazon, my best to date was a book I bought at a car boot sale for 50 pence which I sold on Amazon for £15 plus P&P, I tell you I am making silly profits, what a giggle.

Ok so I won’t even get to speak to you on your birthday you really are determined aren’t not to have anything to do with any of us aren’t you. Can’t stop me thinking of you on the day though, so there.

S